Christabel
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: A phone call, two accidental deaths and a mysterious woman Dean meets at a museum add up to trouble for the world's best hunting duo. Set mid-Season 1.
1. The Owls Have Awakened

**Disclaimer: **Nope, nothing's mine. (I'm not crediting the actual writer of the poem to keep from spoiling anyone who hasn't read it. But it isn't me.)

Casefic! With many thanks to Cheryl for not wigging out on me with the amount of stuff I've been sending her lately.

**Warnings: **Language and Dean being Dean. Nothing stronger than what's on the show.

**Summary:** A phone call, two accidental deaths and a mysterious woman Dean meets at a museum add up to trouble for the world's best hunting duo. Set mid-Season 1.

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**Chapter I: The Owls Have Awakened**

'_Tis the middle of night by the castle cock  
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;  
Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!  
And hark, again! The crowing cock,  
How drowsily it crew._

It all begins with a phone call at midnight.

Sam's asleep, and that's a rare enough occurrence that I hurry to grab the phone before it can wake him.

"Hello?"

Bobby's on the other end. "You think you boys can take a case for me?"

"What kind of case?" I ask. I don't want to take on anything dodgy, not with Sam's weird psychic thing acting up at odd times. "And where?"

"Seems like a straightforward vengeful spirit to me," Bobby says. "You just need to figure out who it is and clean up the mess. It should be an easy job."

I really should say no, if only because Bobby's gone and jinxed it by calling it easy, but I don't. Sam's been having a rough time lately, and because he's _Sam_ I can't cheer him up by taking him to a bar the way I would a normal person. Spending a few days doing some research for an open-and-shut case is exactly what he needs.

"Sure," I say. "Tell me what you know."

A few hours later, I'm repeating the details to Sam over breakfast. The case is in Washington DC. Two deaths in the past four days. The deaths themselves are perfectly natural – one woman was run over by a bus when she ran across a busy street without looking, and a teenage boy fell foul of a violent mugger. Tragic, but not necessarily our thing.

What Bobby thinks makes it our thing is that a friend of his, who was in town to take down a witch who decided to interfere a little too much with her neighbours' lives, noticed high levels of EMF around both bodies when he was in the mortuary looking at the witch's victims. He thought at first that these two wereher victims too, but apparently they had nothing to do with her, or with each other.

It could be our kind of thing.

Sam agrees quickly enough. Not because he's trying to be helpful (like he ever would) but because there's some exhibition at the Smithsonian that he wants to see. Something to do with British poets. I don't know what the hell it's about and my first reaction is to point out to Sam that I have more interesting things to do than watch him drool over Byron's handwriting. But he makes those big, sad eyes, so of _course _I'm going to the Smithsonian with him and I'm going to let him lecture me about whatever he thinks is important about British literature.

When we get there after two days' driving, it's ten at night, and even Sam isn't weird enough to want to break into a museum after he's spent two days cramped in the Impala. So I book us a room and we crash.

Sam sleeps like a baby, waking up only when I come back from the coffee run in the morning and blinking up at me sleepily from his cocoon of blankets. Other than the fact that the bundle of blankets is a lot bigger, he looks exactly like he did when he was six.

On reflection, it's probably best for Sam to be an insomniac. My little brother can be evil, and if he knew exactly how little resistance I have when he looks drowsily at me like that (which, when I think about it, he probably _does_) and if he were capable of sleeping enough to pull it off more often, I'd be spending a lot more time in museums and libraries and a lot less meeting women in bars.

"Here," I say, holding out the coffee.

"Latte?" he asks.

"Yup."

"Decaf?"

"Yes."

"Vanilla?"

"_Yes_, Sam."

"Awww, Dean," he teases. "You remember what I like!"

"Shut up." I smack the back of his head and sit on the edge of my bed. "So how are we doing this?"

"We need to visit Anne Lawson's husband, Trey Marsh's parents, the hospital, Anne's office and Trey's school." Sam counts them off on his fingers. "We could split up."

"Why? So you can be the next one to have a mysterious accident? I don't think so."

"I can take care of myself," Sam protests. "Besides, if we split up, we'll be done sooner, and then we can go to the Smithsonian today."

"No." Sam tries the eyes. I shake my head. "Come on. You know perfectly well that isn't going to work when it's a question of your safety."

"But –"

"Stop arguing and start getting dressed and we might still be able to make the Smithsonian before it closes."

We're out of the room in record time.

I can't help thinking that a lot of the tension of our childhood might have been avoided if Dad had tried motivating Sam with museums instead of vengeance.

Our first visit is to Theo Lawson.

Because it was an accident, we can't get into his house with FBI badges. Instead, we pretend to be employees of the hospital where Anne was taken after the accident and claim we need some paperwork signed. Theo's a little puzzled but he seems too caught up in his own grief to think very much about it. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I suppress it. People are dying; we can't afford to be pansy about Theo's feelings.

I'm not sure how to bring up the subject of the circumstances of Anne's death, but Theo saves me the trouble and does it himself.

"It wasn't like her," he chokes as he signs the papers Sam shoves under his nose without even bothering to read them. "She was so careful, always so careful."

Sam makes a sympathetic noise.

"It… It feels like the world is empty," Theo goes on.

"I understand," Sam says quietly.

"Do you?"

Sam ducks his head. "I… My girlfriend died a few months ago. It's not the same thing, of course, you were married to Mrs. Lawson for thirty years, but I think I understand, a little."

I move closer to him. There was a tremor in his voice, and I don't know if he's faking it.

"Oh," Theo says, just as quietly. "I'm sorry." Then, "How did you find a reason to keep living?"

"My brother. He made sure I ate and slept and he kept me going. He _gave _me a reason to live." Sam looks at Theo earnestly, but he also relaxes into the hand I rest on his shoulder so I know he needs it. "You shouldn't be alone now, Mr. Lawson. Isn't there someone who can come? Children?"

"Justin's in the army… In Iraq. I don't think they've even managed to get word to him yet. My… My sister will be here tomorrow. She's devastated by this, too. She and Anne were close."

"Mrs. Lawson must have been a special lady."

"She was," Theo chokes. "Oh, she was. So beautiful. And so good with the children."

"Children?" I ask.

"She was a teacher."

"A teacher?" Sam says softly. "I didn't know that… I thought she was a lawyer."

"It was her day job. She taught in the evenings, on weekends sometimes. Underprivileged kids. Anne had the biggest heart, she wanted to do everything she could to help them. She tried to get me in on it, too, but I'm a horrible teacher. They'd probably fail their SATs."

Theo's voice breaks. I look away uncomfortably. I never know what to do when witnesses get this upset. I never know what to do when _anybody _gets this upset. Well, unless it's Sam.

Sam hands Theo a tissue. Theo accepts it, mumbling thanks.

"Her students sent flowers," he says thickly. "So many flowers… They're all in our bedroom. I've – I've not slept there since – I – I _couldn't_." He glances at Sam. "Would you… Would you like to see it?"

Theo isn't kidding about the flowers. There are so many that the scent is overpowering. Roses, lilies, carnations, flowers whose names I don't even _know_, bouquets and wreaths and baskets of them. They fill the bedroom, covering the bed, the windowsill, the dresser, the chairs, and a large part of the floor.

"Which is the one from the students?" Sam asks.

Theo indicates a huge wreath of lilies hanging on the back of the door. Sam looks at it.

Then he looks at me, in the way that means he's found something.

"What?" I ask as soon as we're outside.

"The wreath from the students. Dean, Anne Lawson taught at Jackson Memorial."

"Trey Marsh's school," I say.

This is definitely our kind of thing.

Sam and I don't talk much as I drive to Jackson Memorial High School. It's in a seedy neighbourhood, and somehow I can't quite reconcile it with elegant and beautiful Anne Lawson, Attorney at Law, with her triple-string of pearls and her corner office with a view of the river.

At Jackson we're police officers ruling out the possibility that Trey's death was anything more than a random mugging. The principal isn't too eager to let us talk to the students, but Sam's earnestness convinces her that we don't mean any harm and she begrudgingly sets us up in the counsellor's office and pulls Trey's friends out of their classes. She doesn't call the parents. Sam makes a face, muttering about children's rights, but I point out to him that neither of us is violating the kids' rights so there really isn't a problem.

He doesn't buy it, but he stops complaining.

The kids are willing enough. They clearly want to talk and haven't had anyone willing to listen to their side of the story. Sam is young enough – and _looks _young enough – that they see him as one of them and there's not much for me to do but stand by the window and take notes while they pour out their hearts to him. A lot of it is useless bitching about how _that skank Avery always had it in for Trey ever since he broke up with her last year _and _I'm telling you man, it was Mike from basketball that did it because Trey snitched on him selling pot_.

Well, maybe the second one isn't _that _far-fetched.

It isn't until we see Trey's girlfriend that we get a breakthrough.

She's pretty, although she's got on a lot too much makeup for a fifteen-year-old. Big blue-green eyes and blonde hair that probably isn't natural. Her nails are long and bright pink. She starts tapping them nervously on the table as soon as she sits down.

"You're Doreen?" Sam asks gently.

"Yeah," she mumbles, not looking at him.

"Hi, Doreen. My name is Sam. This must be a difficult time for you. I'm so sorry to have to bother you."

She shrugs. "Don't know who did it."

"Do you know who might have wanted to do it?" Something flashes in her eyes. Sam leans forward and says softly, "Doreen, you can tell me. Just between us."

"It was that bitch," Doreen mutters. For a second I think we're back on Avery, but then Doreen adds, "Not from around here. I don't know where Trey met her but everything went to pieces as soon as he started hanging out with her."

"Who, Doreen? Do you know her name?"

"Something fancy. Trey just called her Dina. She was… Well, our age, maybe a little older, I guess. Sixteen, seventeen. But she looked a lot older."

Sam and I exchange a glance. That's something, coming from a high school student who's managing to look twenty-five.

"What do you mean, older? How old did she look?"

"Oh, she _looked _sixteen. Just… you know… Like she'd seen a lot. She looked sad sometimes. I think that's how she got Trey on her side about… everything. Made him get all protective."

"Do you have a photograph of Dina?"

"No." Doreen makes a face. "Wouldn't _want _her photograph. Not after what she did."

"Doreen." Sam looks as non-threatening as he can, which means he looks like an overgrown puppy that wants to play Fetch. "Did you suspect Trey was… unfaithful?"

"Did he cheat on me, you mean?" Doreen laughs. "Oh, yeah. He tried to deny it, but I knew. I could see it in her eyes." She laughs again, but it turns into a sob. Sam passes her a tissue and waits.

When she's settled down, he says, "Doreen, just one last question. Did you have any classes with Anne Lawson? She taught here, didn't she?"

"Mrs. Lawson? Yeah, she came in the evenings. Special coaching in the evenings for people who want it." Doreen looks unhappy. "It's awful. Talbot was on and on about it the day after it happened, about how it's a tragic loss. First time people actually listened to him." She shrugs. "Mrs. Lawson taught me and Trey History. Whole bunch of us in that class. Don't know who's going to take it now. Probably Talbot, and he can make anything boring."

"Thanks, Doreen," Sam says, and the girl's gone.

"So what do you think?" I ask when the door's shut behind her. "Woman in White?"

"That wouldn't explain Anne Lawson. Besides, a Woman in White doesn't usually hang around long enough to make the acquaintance of the girlfriend."

"And we don't even have a full name."

"Maybe Dina has nothing to do with it. Trey was a high school kid and from everything we've heard he wasn't a saint. There might be no more to it than that."

"C'mon," Sam says. "Let's go meet the parents."

Trey's parents aren't thrilled to have to talk to us. His dad looks wasted, and from the hollows under his eyes and his sunken cheeks it isn't the first time. His mom is tiny, harried, and terrified of her husband.

When Mr. Marsh – Chuck – sees us, his eyes go narrow and he studies us carefully, like he's trying to decide whether we'll help him set up a meth lab.

I feel an irrational urge to tell Sam to go wait in the Impala.

But he's not a kid now. He's twenty-two and taller than me, so I let him sit next to me, knee bumping mine under the tiny table in the Marshes' dining room, and glare at Mr. Marsh when he brushes Sam's sleeve to get to his own chair.

They feed us the usual story. Trey was wonderful. Good grades, never got in trouble, always hardworking and respectful.

They've heard of Dina, too, but they never met her. Trey said she was from one of the fancy schools, daughter of a foreign diplomat. They don't know which country. Trey didn't like being asked questions. Trey liked hanging out with her, was flattered that she wanted to hang out with him, but Trey's mother assures us, with the first sign of spirit she's shown, that there was nothing between them. Trey was in love with Doreen and he would never have cheated on her.

The EMF meter hidden in Sam's briefcase registers nothing, and I hustle him out of there and away from Chuck Marsh's predatory gaze as quickly as I can.

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	2. Shadowy in the Moonlight

**Author's Note: **Happy Thanksgiving to whoever is celebrating it! :-)

And just a note for those who asked – the fic will be complete in five chapters. (So not as long as my usual multi-chaps.)

Thanks to Cheryl for general helpfulness, and to sylvia37, missingmikey, criminally charmed, kellywinchester, SamWin98, emebalia, PutMoneyInThyPurse, AshleyMarie84, Colby's girl, BranchSuper, SPN Mum, SandyDee84, godsdaughter77, skag trendy, twomoms and TheButterflyCurse996 for the reviews.

**Disclaimer: **No, still not mine.

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**Chapter II: Shadowy in the Moonlight**

_There she sees a damsel bright,  
Dressed in a silken robe of white,  
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:  
The neck that made that white robe wan,  
Her stately neck, and arms were bare,  
Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,  
And wildly glittered here and there  
The gems entangled in her hair._

We get lunch at a diner across town. Then, partly because we need a break, partly because neither the hospital nor Anne Lawson's office would give us an appointment before tomorrow morning, and partly because my brother has the biggest and most soulful eyes in the history of _ever_, we go to the Smithsonian.

The exhibit Sam was having wet dreams about is simply and unimaginatively titled 'British Poets'. I go in expecting it to look like a library but I'm pleasantly surprised to find that it's actually nice. Sure they have _some _books, but they also have paintings and clothes and little bits of sculpture and artefacts. It helps that Sam's running commentary is much more interesting than what the museum's tour guide is telling the school group that's standing in a bored huddle around a portrait of somebody in an Elizabethan ruff. At least _Sam _knows the _interesting _parts of the stories and isn't sticking to the Disney versions.

Sam's busy telling me something about Wordsworth when his phone rings. He looks at it, sighs, and walks away, signalling that he'll be back in a minute.

I'm a little hurt that he didn't want to talk to whoever it was in front of me. I consider going after him to eavesdrop, decide that would be stupid, and instead bend over to read the description of the next exhibit. It's a locket on a gold chain, and the card said it was found in the effects of Samuel Taylor Coleridge after he died.

Somehow that doesn't seem nearly as interesting as it would have if Sam had been there.

I back away, and I almost bump into the person behind me.

"Sorry," I say, not turning.

"Oh, that's all right!" comes the response, a woman's voice, light and cheerful and with a strong British accent.

When I look at her, I'm pretty sure it's a moment before I can hitch up my jaw. The woman standing in front of me is literally the hottest thing I've ever seen. About twenty-five, dark hair, the bluest eyes imaginable, and a body a supermodel would die for. She's wearing a dress in some creamy colour.

"I'm Dean," I say, holding out my hand. I don't offer a last name, because my brain seems to have gone too blank for me to remember which one we're using here.

She takes it. Her grip is warm and strong. "Geraldine. Geraldine Tryermaine."

"Not from around here, are you, Geraldine?"

"No, I'm a doctoral student at the University of London. I'm here visiting some friends and I just had to see this… Are you interested in Coleridge?"

"What? Oh, the locket. No… No, not really."

She laughs. "That's good. He's fearfully boring. I have to say, most of this is fearfully boring. Not at all what I expected."

"God, yes!" I find myself agreeing. "I only came here because my pain-in-the-ass little brother pestered me into it. So I sort of knew from the get-go it was going to suck. But it should keep the little bitch from whining at me for the rest of the week." For a moment I think that's weird, because I _was _– well, enjoying myself would be a stretch, but it was kind of fun listening to Sam get all excited. It's like watching a puppy with a new toy. Then I find myself saying, "Maybe we should get together over a drink sometime and discuss some _real _art."

"I would like that," Geraldine says, smiling. "Here." She reaches into my pocket, pulls out my cell phone, and types in her number. "Call me. I'm free tonight."

By the time Sam comes back, she's gone.

"What?" Sam asks, and that's when I realize I have a sappy grin on my face. I'm still thinking about Geraldine.

"I have a date tonight."

"I was gone like two minutes."

"Awww, but she was so perfect, I just _had _to ask her."

"Whatever you say, Romeo."

Sam's shoulder bumps mine as he walks past me to look at Coleridge's locket, and I feel a little jolt like an electric shock. When my nerve endings stop tingling, we're back to where Sam's the little brother I would kill for, die for, and enjoy an afternoon in the museum for, and Geraldine is a hot girl I'm meeting for dinner.

"What's that?" I ask, indicating the locket, because I feel a little guilty about how I described Sam to a girl I'd only just met.

Sam doesn't even glance at the card. "According to popular legend, this locket belonged to Christabel – or, well, to the woman who was believed to be the inspiration for Christabel. Look." He grabs my arm and pulls me closer. "It's far older than the poem. Could even be fourteenth, fifteenth century. That would fit with the time of the legend."

"Who's Christabel?" I ask, because sometimes Sam needs to be reminded that everyone isn't a geek.

"A character – the main character – in one of Coleridge's poems. You would like it, it's about a ghost. The poem's incomplete, though."

"Christabel is a ghost?"

"Christabel is a girl who trusts a ghost, thinking she's human." Sam grins at me. "It was one of Pastor Jim's favourites. We spent an afternoon discussing the themes and motifs and possible interpretations one day when Dad had taken you hiking and I had a cold."

"Better you than me, Sammy. Who was on the phone?"

"Bobby. He wanted my opinion on a translation."

"And you couldn't have that conversation in front of me?"

Sam grins. "Yeah, Dean. We're in a place full of civilians, more than half of whom are children, but _you _were the one I was worried would overhear me talking about demon banishing rituals and start a panic."

The rest of the afternoon passes much quicker than I'd thought. I keep an eye open for Geraldine, hoping to point her out to Sam, but I don't see her. We pass a couple more school groups, noisy, raucous teenagers who want to be anywhere but here, and I can't help laughing at Sam's disapproving face.

"You should've been a schoolteacher."

We have coffee later, sitting in the museum café surrounded by chattering people, families, school groups, tourists, and a few weirdoes like Sam who just like museums. Sam pushes me into a chair and then braves a horde of shrieking teenage girls to get me apple pie.

Sammy's kind of awesome.

While I'm watching him stand in line, at least four feet taller than anyone else, I catch a glimpse of something across the room. I turn just in time to see Geraldine slipping out the door.

As though she's sensed my gaze, she pauses with her hand on the doorknob. She turns and looks over her shoulder at me, tosses me a tiny, flirtatious smile, and then she's gone.

Sam's awesomeness has dissipated by evening. He's supposed to be helping me pick out a shirt to wear to dinner. Instead, he's sitting on his bed laughing himself into stitches and not remotely bothered by the fact that I don't have a single damn thing to wear.

I'm very near bursting with frustration. Then Sam leans over and smacks the back of my head and that seems to smack some sense into it. I spend the next ten minutes blushing furiously and putting all my shirts back in my bag, and it takes me about ten seconds to pick something to wear for dinner. I'm Dean Winchester; I don't need to _try _to be hot.

Sam says bye to me, laughing and warning me not to do anything that he wouldn't do.

"Sam, since this evening is actually going to involve something other than me sitting and gawping at her not knowing what to say, I'm pretty sure I'll do a _lot _of things you wouldn't do."

"Don't be a jerk," Sam says, looking so sorry for himself that I almost – _almost_ – apologize. He laughs again before I can, and I fling the pillow from my bed at him and hurry out the door before he can pretend I've bruised his ribs and make me feel guilty for the rest of the week.

I pick Geraldine up outside her apartment building. She's wearing a very nice, _very _backless off-white dress and she's got some sort of glittery thing holding her hair in a fancy bun.

The restaurant she's picked is fancy, too. She orders for both of us, and portions are pretentiously small but the food is good. The champagne is better than good but I have to drive back, so I lay off after the second glass. Geraldine smiles with her mouth and her eyes and whispers that she has something _so _much better than champagne waiting for me, if I'd care to join her for coffee when we're done here.

I would very much care to join her for coffee.

Just as we're leaving, I pull out my phone and call Sam to tell him not to wait up. He probably won't, but he gets little enough sleep that I don't want to take the risk.

"Hey, kiddo," I say when he answers. "How's the research going?"

"Fine," Sam replies, and maybe there's an undercurrent of something in his voice, but Geraldine has a hand on my arm and it's making goosebumps rise on my skin. "How's your date going?"

"_Awesome_, Sammy. I'm not going to be back tonight… Don't wait up for me."

Sam snorts. "Like I was going to. I don't want to be permanently scarred by the sight of your drunken ass stumbling into the room after a night of whatever you have planned."

"Hey. How about some respect for your elders?"

I can almost _sense _the rolled eyes. "Take care of yourself, Dean."

"Yeah, you too, kiddo. I'll call you in the morning."

Then I'm driving, Geraldine curled up almost in my lap, whispering sinfully dirty things in my ear. She doesn't want to go back to her apartment because her roommate's in tonight, so I charge Biggs Darklighter (blame that one on Sam) for the fancy hotel room we end up booking.

I text Sam in the elevator on the way up. I'm not quite sure why.

_Don't wait up, bitch._

My cell buzzes a second later.

_Got more interesting things to do. Jerk._

I'm about to text back, but Geraldine catches my eye and I put the cell back in my pocket.

The door opens to our floor before I can actually try to kiss her. There's an elderly couple standing waiting, and as soon as they see us they frown, like they know what we're doing and they don't approve. I'm about to walk past them down the corridor, but Geraldine laughs and introduces herself and in a moment they're both smiling and nodding and telling us to enjoy ourselves.

Wow. Even _Sam _isn't that good.

I feel a twinge of guilt, like the thought is some sort of betrayal, but I push it away. Hot girls are always going to be more effective than puppy-dog eyes, even _Sam's _puppy-dog eyes. There's no betrayal in admitting the truth.

Geraldine takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine as we make our way down the corridor.

I flash the card and open the door. She slips in ahead of me, sliding her own card into the slot by the door. The lights turn on. It's a nicer place than we've ever stayed in, but I don't take the time to look around. Geraldine's there, smiling, laughing, pushing me into a chair and saying she just needs to freshen up.

The bathroom door shuts.

I pull out my cell phone, hesitating over calling Sam. It's getting stupid; Sam _knows _where I am and I know where he is and why on _earth_ am I even thinking about it?

But I've pressed the button and the call is going through and Sam's voice is in my ear asking if I'm OK.

"I'm fine," I say. "I like her, Sammy. She's… She's something."

"OK," Sam says indulgently. "Have fun, then."

"Yeah."

I don't hang up, though, and after a moment Sam asks, "Dude, are you sure you're OK? You've got a hot girl waiting for you. Why are you on the phone with me?"

"I'll be back in the morning, Sam."

"Yeah, I know."

"Take care of yourself."

"I'll be fine, Dean."

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a moment, feeling an irrational urge to call Sam back. He's going to think I'm insane, but…

But Geraldine is back, just wearing a white terrycloth robe and looking far hotter than any human being has a right to look. The sight of her makes my throat go dry.

"Hello, Dean," she says, all soft and sultry.

Her hands are at her waist, undoing the sash holding the robe closed. Her eyes are on mine, bluer eyes than I've ever seen, and she's smiling with those lips that were made to be kissed.

The robe falls open.

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	3. Lord of Thy Utterance

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

For reviews, thanks to reannablue, sandycub, Jeanny, SPN Mum, emebalia, Lucydolly22, BranchSuper, SandyDee84, Colby's girl, judyann, skag trendy, sammynanci, SamWin98 and Awkward Pen.

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help!

**WARNING: **This chapter has potentially disturbing/triggery themes, including mentions of non-consensual sex. There's nothing graphic. Proceed with discretion.

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**Chapter III: Lord of Thy Utterance**

_In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,  
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!  
Thou knowest tonight, and wilt know to-morrow,  
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow._

My brain's shut down.

I can't remember –

I don't know –

I think I did it with Geraldine, I have a foggy memory of laughing and panting and burning kisses. I know the laughing was hers but I don't know if it's real laughter anymore. In the middle of the night it was. I could tell it was laughter, and Geraldine was having as good a time as I was.

Her head's on my shoulder, she's stifling giggles against my bare skin, and she's warm and solid and _there_.

There's something wrong with it.

But my brain's too – too – _gone_ – for me to remember much from before now, before this moment, before this contented daze with Geraldine curled up against my side.

My hand is on her bare back. She leans into the touch.

The curtains are drawn back, and from the picture window the view is perfect as the first light sweeps across the city and through the glass.

Geraldine's laughter is shorter and sharper and before I know what's going on, before I have time to react, she's sobbing. There are tears, and every attempt to soothe her makes them worse, and every attempt to back off makes them worse, and I don't know what to do.

I try to get closer and comfort her. Her skin is like ice.

The tears turn into screams.

I'm all the way across the room, frantically calling the front desk and asking for the in-house doctor, because whatever the hell is wrong with her, I'm not equipped to deal with it.

And now the doctor's coming and I'm pretty sure they'll have questions I can't answer because, Christ, I only met this woman yesterday and I don't know anything about her or what childhood traumas she went through that are making her sit in the corner screaming after what she said was the best night of her life.

There's the doctor. My mind goes blank, completely blank, when Geraldine starts sobbing out her story and the doctor looks at me like I'm something horrible under a microscope in the lab. Geraldine is lying, God, she's _lying_, because I _know_ she was just as willing as I was and I _definitely _didn't imagine her voice whispering in my ear as I drove us here.

I would never – _never _– but nobody seems to care what I would never do because Geraldine's talking and it's impossible _not _to listen to her, to her voice.

What if they call Sam and tell him –

God, what if Sam _believes _them?

She's lying but something has my vocal chords in a vice-like grip and the only words I can find are, "I didn't."

I try to fight when the police get there, but there are too many of them and the window's too high for me to risk the jump.

They're rough, rougher than they would be if I'd been accused of burglary or maybe even murder. Geraldine is being led out of the room by a sympathetic-looking nurse and there's a very big cop – bigger than Sam – putting cuffs on me.

In the police station they ask if I have a lawyer.

I know that "I didn't", which is the only thing I've been able to say all day, will be the wrong answer to this. But it's not like my vocabulary is at top form right now and it takes several minutes of concentrated effort for me to think of a word other than "I didn't".

The word, when it finally comes, is "Sam".

They cuff me to the table in the interrogation room and the big cop is in my face, asking me what I'd used to drug her, asking how I knew her and who the hell I imagined I was fooling by calling myself Biggs Darklighter.

"I didn't," I say, and then, because he doesn't look like he believes me, I add, "Sam. Please. Sam."

They rough me up a bit. My jaw is bruised and my nose is bleeding when the big cop is pulled out. I'm alone for a long time, and the room is cold and I still can't think because something's still messing with my head.

The door opens again. I cringe, waiting for the blow. There isn't one.

I look up and it's Sam, _Sam_, and he looks serious and worried but he'll know what to do. He'll know why my mouth can't keep up with my brain. He'll know how to fix this.

Sam pulls the door shut and sits across the table from me.

I have an irrational feeling that's a mixture of relief and anger. Relief because Sam's here, and he'll understand what I can't say, and anger because Sam's here, my baby brother's been dragged into this – whatever _this _is – and what if that big beefy cop hurts him?

Worse, what if my brother _believes_ them?

"I didn't," I mutter under my breath. "I didn't I didn't I didn't I _didn't_."

Sam ignores it. "They gave me your paperwork," he says, flipping open the folder. "They seem to think I'm your _lawyer_ for some reason, but whatever, at least it means I get your files. I haven't seen this Geraldine woman yet but they said she's coming in later to press charges. _Only _you, Dean." Sam shakes his head. "Seriously, a hotel? No wonder they think it's skeevy. Why didn't you just go to her house?"

"_Sam._"

He looks up at me, and something in his face changes. "Dean? Did she do something to you? What's wrong?"

"_I didn't_," I say, because Sam needs to know that.

Sam huffs. "Don't be stupid, Dean. I know you didn't. Now pay attention, we need to figure out a way to get you out of here. I can pick your handcuffs before I go but you'll still need – Dean?"

"_Sam_," I choke out, because that's the only word I have left and Sam's talking so fast I can't understand a thing he's saying.

"_Crap_," Sam hisses under his breath.

He's in front of me, crouching, hands cradling my face. I shut my eyes and lean forward until I feel his shoulder under my forehead, smell cologne and gun oil, and it's the scratchy feeling of his blazer that starts to clear my head a bit.

I can't get my hands free, but this is enough to help me form words again.

"She lied," I murmur.

"Yeah, I figured. She probably whammied you with something, too." His hand is on my head, chasing the fog away. "We'll figure it out. First things first, though, we have to spring you from here."

He pulls away and sits across the table again.

The file's open and he's talking but I really don't care what he's saying. Sam's here and Sam believes me and I know he'll sort this out. Maybe with puppy eyes at the superintendent.

Then there's a knock on the door.

A uniformed man comes in and says Ms. Tryermaine is here to see Sam.

Sam tells me he'll be back, squeezes my shoulder, and leaves. The entire time he's gone my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.

Sam's gone to her. My Sammy, my sweet innocent trusting Sammy has gone to speak to that manipulative bitch. This is all my fault. I'm the one who knows about women. I should have recognized her for what she was the first time I saw her. Don't know what she wants from us. If she's after money it's stupid, because I don't have any. I don't have anything other than Sam and the Impala, and she's not getting her hands on either of them.

Sam comes in while I'm still thinking about what I'll do to her if she tries to take my brother or my car.

There's something in his face, something in his eyes when he looks at me. Like he isn't sure he knows me anymore.

Oh, God.

Sam thinks I might have done it.

"I _didn't_," I say, not caring how pathetic I sound, because this – Sam not trusting me – isn't something I can live with. And the very thought of it sends every other idea scuttling out of my brain. I'm back to the three words of that morning. "Sam, I didn't."

Sam's brows wrinkle, like he's trying to puzzle something out.

"Sam," I beg.

Sam still looks unconvinced, but he responds automatically to my voice. For once I'm grateful that he's as protective of me as I am of him, because although he doesn't exactly look friendly, he does come up to me and drop his hand to my shoulder.

There's a jolt, just like at the museum the previous day, and all of a sudden Sam's on his knees in front of me.

"_Dean?_"

"Sammy."

"Oh, God, _Dean_."

And he's my Sammy again, whatever spell that evil bitch cast on him broken by the physical contact. His hand is bunched in my shirt and his head's resting in the crook of my arm and I really, _really_ want to smooth down his hair, just to calm him down, but my hands are still cuffed to the table.

"What do we do?" Sam asks. "Did you sleep with her?"

"Sam, I didn't force –"

"That's not what I asked."

"Yeah," I say. "I did."

Sam shakes his head. "Idiot. Now they might actually be able to trace your DNA on her." He pulls away – not completely; his hand stays on my knee. "I persuaded them to do a rush job on her blood screens. At least that'll prove you couldn't have roofied her, and apparently there weren't any signs of physical violence."

"So they'll let me go?"

"I don't know. Whatever mojo she's got going, it's serious. I mean, she almost had _me _persuaded."

"Come on, Sam. You're going to make me start having doubts about the Stanford Law admissions process."

Sam's eyes shutter, and I wonder if that's too raw a subject to joke about, but then he smiles at me. "Yeah, yeah. You're the one who's sitting here handcuffed to the table."

"So when are the tox screens due?"

"Soon. But we still have a problem."

"What?"

"I'll have to go out there to look at them and talk to the officers and call the DA if necessary. I don't think they'll let you come with me. So _this_," he says, squeezing my knee, "isn't going to work. And if Geraldine's around, I don't know that I'll be able to keep her from affecting me long enough to win the argument with Officer Hanson, who apparently hates you. Did you sock him in the jaw?"

"He was accusing me of being a sex offender."

"Awesome. Thank you for making my job easier."

"Hey, I'm paying you by the hour, bitch."

Sam snorts. "As if you could ever afford me."

"Hey, Stanford, how many pool games have _you _won lately?"

"I beat _you _all the time."

"Yeah, because of physics. Doesn't help you get money off other people, though, does it, college boy? For that you need the ability to make people do what you want."

Still on his knees, Sam widens his eyes and juts out his lower lip.

"People _other _than your pushover big brother," I tell him.

"Why? I can leave everyone else to my big brother."

"Sam."

There's a sound at the door. Sam pulls away, settling himself into the chair across the table by the time the door opens. I'm a little worried – what if it's Geraldine? – but then Sam's ankle nudges mine under the table and I thank God for the kid's giraffe legs.

The door opens. It _is _Geraldine.

The sight of her is enough to shut down my brain functions. It isn't even desire anymore, it's _fear_, it's sheer terror that's making my brain stop working and all I can think is _Sammy _and how this bitch is going to make him think I _forced_ her and my little brother isn't going to trust me anymore and –

"Can I help you?" Sam asks, all cold and impersonal, and I'm impressed despite myself.

Sam's ankle brushes mine and he gives me a tiny grin.

"Are you Sam?" Geraldine asks. "Dean told me about you. Little brother. I didn't know you were a lawyer too. You look too young for that."

Sam pushes his chair back. Before I have time to do more than look at him in alarm, he's walked around the table and he's standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder. After all, there's no reason to pretend if Geraldine already knows Sam's not a real lawyer.

"What do you want?" Sam asks.

"I want you to hear my side of the story. I know you believe your brother – it's natural – but you don't know what happened last night. Please. I just want you to listen to me."

I feel panic rising. If she gets Sam to believe her –

Sam's hand tightens, and I let myself lean back against him. My brain might be fried, but my instincts are working, and right now my instincts say Sam can handle this.

"All right," Sam says. "Talk."

Geraldine talks. It's the same act she pulled this morning – dewy-eyed innocent visitor seduced and drugged by an American hooligan. The cops fell for it hook, line and sinker, but Sam just squeezes my shoulder and listens and doesn't believe a word of it.

Geraldine looks increasingly frustrated. Clearly her mojo has never failed to work before.

When she finally gives up and goes away, I can't help a small whoop of triumph.

"Easy, there," Sam says, unsmiling. "I still need to go and persuade them to let you out. And I can't hold your hand while I do it."

He comes round in front of me, and he lets me rest my head on his ribs and listen to his heartbeat until the fog around my brain has lifted and I can think coherently again.

"Take my amulet," I say, as soon as I can.

"What?"

"Take my amulet. It's not the same thing, but maybe it'll be close enough that you can hold her off for a little while. Just as long as it takes to talk me out of this."

"You sure?"

"We don't have a choice, Sam. We can't sit here forever. And meanwhile, we still don't know what killed Anne Lawson and Trey Marsh."

"Yeah." For a moment Sam doesn't move, letting us draw strength from each other.

Then he gently lifts the amulet over my head. I feel like a part of me is missing. And that's the whole idea, for a part of me to be with Sam to block Geraldine.

The door closes behind him.

* * *

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	4. Nothing Doubting of Her Spell

**Disclaimer: **They're not mine. Alas.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta and to criminally charmed, Colby's girl, scootersmom, sammynanci, nupinoop296, SPN Mum, Lucydolly22, AshleyMarie84, SandyDee84, d767468, L.A.H.H, KlutzyHanyou, emebalia, Love Me Like Sunday, BranchSuper, skag trendy, Gallagher Girl and IritIlan for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter IV: Nothing Doubting of Her Spell**

_And Geraldine shakes off her dread,  
And rises lightly from the bed;  
Puts on her silken vestments white,  
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,  
And nothing doubting of her spell  
Awakens the lady Christabel._

For once something goes our way and my amulet, held in the palm of Sam's hand, is enough. It isn't perfect, and he has to fight for control, but he _has _control. At some point one of the cops comes in to talk to me and leaves the interrogation room door open, so I can hear Sam yelling about citizens' rights and the American legal system. I can't help feeling a mixture of pride and fondness for the kid I brought up.

It's late in the evening by the time Sam persuades them to let me go. They don't like it, but Geraldine's tox screens came back clean and there's no sign of violence on her. And I think they were scared of Sam. They don't know what a softie he is.

I'm still under orders not to leave the city. Not that that's ever stopped us.

We're both exhausted and starving. The Impala's still in the hotel, and I'm not going to rest until she's back safe, so we go get her. I drive back, and when an exhausted Sam slumps against me I don't shove him off. Geraldine is still too close. I find a drive-through McDonald's, smile politely at the checkout girl who coos at the sight of Sam drowsing on my shoulder, and drive straight to the motel.

Without talking about it, we shove the beds together. We're not taking any chances, not until we know what Geraldine is after and how to get rid of her.

We do separate long enough to shower and brush our teeth, and then we settle down on the now-king-sized bed. There's enough space that we don't have to be uncomfortably close. I flick the TV on, and Sam curls up with his laptop and lets his shoulder brush mine. It's enough for me; and as for Sam, he seems just fine now. Geraldine hit me far harder. Sam thinks that's a consequence of having slept with her.

"We missed our appointments today," I say.

Sam nods. "I've rescheduled for tomorrow. It'll be fine. We need to figure out who Geraldine – crap." His fingers fly on the keys. "_Crap. _She _said _her name was Geraldine Tryermaine."

He's got that _I've figured it out and I'm pissed it took me so long _look on his face.

"Sam?"

"_Geraldine Tryermaine_," he hisses, snapping his laptop closed. "It was right there in _front _of me. You were right next to the locket when you met her, weren't you? How could I be so _stupid_? And I bet she was responsible for – hold on."

He grabs his phone and dials a number. He doesn't put it on speaker, but I'm sitting close enough to him that I can hear anyway.

"Hi, is that Doreen? Doreen, this is Officer Davis. Yes, from yesterday. Listen, I had a question for you. This girl, Dina… Was her full name Geraldine?"

"Yeah," Doreen's voice comes. "How'd you find out? I told you it was something fancy."

"Do you know when Trey met her?"

"It was… Two weeks ago, I think. Oh, yeah, it was the thirteenth. It was the day we had a school trip to the Smithsonian."

"Thanks, Doreen."

Sam ends the call and looks at me. "It's her."

"It has to be a coincidence," I protest. "Doreen said that Dina chick was sixteen or seventeen, and the woman I slept with was _definitely _legal. And older than my little brother."

"So what? We don't know what else Geraldine can do. Maybe she can make herself look different ages. And I'm pretty sure she's not human."

"You want to tell me what this is about?"

"Where did you meet her?"

"At the Smithsonian, when you were off talking to Bobby about that translation. You know that. You just said it yourself."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "Trey met his Geraldine at the Smithsonian, too. The British Poets section has been up for three weeks now. It could've been there. And I'll bet anything Anne Lawson checked the exhibition out. Maybe took a client there and billed them for it."

"Why? Who _is_ this Geraldine?"

"Remember Coleridge's poem? Christabel, the girl who trusts a ghost?"

"Yeah," I say, not liking where this is going.

"The ghost was called Geraldine. She claimed to be the daughter of Sir Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."

"And you couldn't tell me this before?" I demanded.

"Dude, you never even told me your date was called Geraldine! I thought she was called Starla or something like that. I didn't know what her name was till I saw her at the police station this morning, and by that time I had more important things on my mind than Coleridge!"

"Yeah." I sigh. "She didn't feel like a ghost, though."

"There are different kinds of spirits. According to the legend, Geraldine was just like a normal woman at first. That's how she fooled Christabel."

"But Christabel eventually figured out something was wrong?"

"Yes. Christabel was out in the castle grounds at night when she came across Geraldine. Geraldine claimed she'd been kidnapped by ruffians but had escaped and asked for Christabel's help getting word to her father. Christabel took her in for the night. She didn't suspect a thing until they were undressing for bed, and then…"

"Then what?"

"Coleridge doesn't say exactly. But whatever it was, Geraldine put a spell on Christabel. Christabel couldn't report what she'd seen to anyone."

I feel a chill. I remember the moment, remember Geraldine undoing the sash and opening her robe. I remember the cold down to my bones and the inability to speak, the inability to do anything other than what Geraldine wanted.

I don't flinch from Sam's arm around me. I need the grounding.

"Same thing happened to you, huh?" Sam asks softly. "You saw her without her clothes." I nod numbly. "Tell me?"

I shake my head. I can't get the words out, not even for Sam. My mouth won't form them, my brain won't give the order for them to be spoken.

"Well, can you write it?" Sam asks, pushing a pen and notepad at me.

I take them, and I try. I even manage to write the word _Geraldine_, but that's it. There's some kind of invisible force holding my fingers. I can't go beyond that, can't tell Sam exactly what it was that happened or what I saw or why my brain stopped working.

Sam sighs, taking the notebook away. "OK. Go to sleep. We'll deal with it in the morning."

Sam's head is on my shoulder, just the way it used to be when we were kids and he was afraid of the dark. My hand is in his hair, and it isn't just the physical contact that's keeping me sane, it's the knowledge that Sam's here. Sam's here and I'm responsible for him. I don't know about Anne Lawson or Trey Marsh or even Christabel, but _I _have a kid brother to take care of. I have a job to do and I can't let Geraldine stop me from doing it.

"Sam?"

It's no surprise that Sam's voice is wide awake when he answers. "Yeah?"

"What happened to Christabel?"

"Next day she tried to tell her father what was going on, but he took Geraldine's side. Geraldine's father was an old friend of his but they'd had a falling out. He saw it as his chance to make amends."

"So Christabel died?"

"No. That's all there is of the poem – Coleridge didn't finish it – but apparently in the rest of it, he planned that the ghost of Christabel's mother would come back to save her from Geraldine. Get some help from a couple of people – Christabel's betrothed and one guy who was a minstrel or something of the kind."

"Yeah, I don't know any minstrels. So… Mom?"

"Probably not," Sam says softly, palm flat on my chest. "Missouri said she's gone." A pause, and then, "But Christabel didn't have a brother, and I'm not letting Geraldine get you."

I let myself believe Sam doesn't hear the sudden hitch in my breath.

"What do you think is holding her here?" I ask. "The locket?"

"Could be." Sam shrugs. "But it's Christabel's locket, and I can't imagine why Geraldine would be tied to it."

"Do we know what kind of spirit Geraldine was? What did she want?"

"At a guess? She seemed to want Christabel's life. To have people care for her as much as they cared for Christabel."

I jiggle the shoulder Sam's using as a pillow, making him pull away with an angry huff. He doesn't go far, though, just settles back on his _actual_ pillow and stares at the ceiling.

"That your attempt to empathize with everything that moves?" I ask.

Sam shakes his head. "No. _No_, Dean. Even if there _were _some justification, it wouldn't keep me from taking her out. Not when she's threatening you. But killing isn't her thing. Not according to the legend. She didn't try to kill Christabel. She already had a physical manifestation. She just wanted to control her."

"Christabel like her host?"

"Maybe."

"So how did Christabel's mom get rid of her?"

"Don't know. But maybe…" Sam pushes himself up on an elbow and turns to me, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat's. "Dean. Maybe it was the locket. Maybe Christabel's mother helped her seal Geraldine inside the locket."

"And then she just vanished?"

"Maybe not. Hold on."

Sam's up, his laptop's out again, and he's typing furiously. I'm starting to feel a little jittery, like Geraldine knows I'm talking about her, so I sidle closer, nudging Sam's shin with my foot.

"Here," Sam says, tilting the laptop so I can see. "The history of the locket. It was found with a stash of mediaeval jewellery a year ago and this is its first public showing. Probably been buried for at least five hundred years. Historians believe it was hidden to keep it safe from marauding soldiers during the War of the Roses."

"How do they know it's Christabel's?"

"It has her name on the back."

"So maybe Christabel and her mother managed to tie Geraldine to the locket. She's been trapped in it for hundreds of years, no new host, and then suddenly the locket is on display at the Smithsonian and she has an entire city to choose from."

"She doesn't seem bound to the museum, though."

"Maybe she can attach herself to anybody who's been in the museum and spoken to her? I was there, Trey was there, Anne Lawson _could've _been there."

"And we know Anne Lawson has a soft spot for kids. Geraldine might have seen her as easy meat."

"Why _me_, though? I'm a hunter. I'm not easy meat."

Sam shrugs. "Maybe she saw you being all overprotective big brother and thought she could use that."

"Oh, please –"

"Argue about it later, Dean. For now we need to figure out how to get rid of her."

"Ice the locket?"

"That's the best we have. Let's go."

"_Now?_"

"What, you have a better time in mind? It's late, the museum will be closed. Won't be anyone other than a couple of night watchmen. We wait till morning and Geraldine might try to take another shot at you. Or try to take over someone else."

"But we don't know everything, Sam! We still don't know why Anne and Trey are dead."

"But –"

"Come on, you're the one who always wants to be fully prepared. We go in without knowing what mojo she has or how she manages to cause these accidents, and we'll both get our asses handed to us and then Dad'll finally show up from wherever he is and kill me for letting you get hurt. We need more information."

Sam slumps. "You're right. We need to speak to Theodore Lawson and the Marshes again tomorrow. And Anne's office."

"And we can't split up," I say. "So you might as well get some sleep now. It's going to be a long day."

Next day we start with Theo again. Of course he's suspicious about why the hospital folk keep bringing him forms to sign, and when I mention a girl called Dina or Geraldine he shuts himself off so quickly I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash.

"I don't see how this is relevant," he protests, looking at Sam for help.

Sam, having decided Geraldine is gunning for me, isn't in the mood to help him out. Sam is in the mood to pull himself up to his full height and look as threatening as he can. (And Sam _can _look threatening when he's pissed off.)

"Why do you want to know about Dina?" Theo demands.

"We're undercover with Vice," Sam says, cool as a whisker. And all this time I've been thinking he couldn't lie! "We suspect she's involved in the drug scene."

"Oh."

"And, you know," Sam drawls, crossing his arms, "it would be a shame if you got dragged down for abetment. Especially since Dina's a minor. Her lawyer will be looking for any adult in sight to pin it on. Get her off with just a warning, but _you_…"

Suddenly Theo's _very _eager to tell us all about Dina.

From his story, Anne met Dina at the Smithsonian. Dina said she was sixteen, in the States on an exchange programme, at the museum alone because all her classmates had seen the Smithsonian a bajillion times. Anne, feeling sorry for the girl, took her around and explained stuff. Dina was still with her when Theo arrived at the museum two hours later, and it ended with them taking the girl out to dinner.

"And you never thought about contacting the adult responsible for her?" Sam asks.

"She's sixteen! I figured she knew her own curfew. She made a call to the family she was living with and apparently they said it was fine. Anne and I didn't feel the need to verify her story." Theo shook his head. "Anyway, I know she and Anne kept in touch and spoke on the phone every morning, but the next time I saw her was a few days later. She was in bad shape – cuts and scrapes all over her, bleeding, clothes torn. She stumbled into the house and said some goons had cornered her in an alley."

"What happened?" Sam asks, all gentle and warm now that the man's talking.

"Anne took her into the bathroom, cleaned her up. After that… I don't know. I… I'm… I'm so sorry."

Normally this is where I duck out and let Sam do his thing. As it is, I lean on the wall next to Sam so we're standing shoulder-to-shoulder while Theo talks.

"Dina… She said… God, and I _believed _her… Dina said Anne… Anne… _molested _her when she was sorting her out after that. And, God, I _knew _Anne, I knew how much she cared about kids."

"Never heard this before," Sam says quietly.

"No, Dina didn't want to go to the police. Now I know why. She was lying. But I believed her, I almost turned Anne _in_." He shakes his head. "And now… Well, as soon as Anne died, I never saw Dina again, and I started to think she might be lying, but after what you've told me…" He looks up at Sam, eyes wet. "Why would she do that? Why would that child accuse my wife of… _that_? A woman who'd only ever been nice to her?"

"I wish we had answers for you, Mr. Lawson."

"What was Mrs. Lawson like on the day of the accident?" I ask. "Distracted? Had you been fighting?"

"We'd been arguing. She – the worst of it was that she didn't _tell _me anything. She just kept insisting that she hadn't done it."

My mind flies back to the previous day, to the impossibility of getting out any words other than "I didn't" and "Sam", and the utter relief when Sam's presence let me find my voice again.

But – what, is Theo saying that he had no physical contact with Anne at _all_? That's ridiculous. If nothing else, they lived in the same house.

Maybe it doesn't work for everyone, though. Maybe it only works if –

The thought makes me unutterably grateful for Sam. I lean into his shoulder. His quick glance tells me he knows what I'm thinking.

"Anne – maybe it was because she was upset," Theo goes on. "She just wasn't paying attention to _anything_. It was bound to happen soon." He shivers. "My fault. No matter what I thought she'd done, I should've been there for her."

We're driving to the Marshes' place when Sam says what's on both our minds. "Dina got Anne _distracted _enough that she stepped into the path of an oncoming bus? That doesn't sound possible, Dean."

"Maybe it is," I say, thinking of the fog over my brain when Geraldine's there and Sam isn't, the numbness, the inability to think. "Only question is why she'd do it."

"Maybe she doesn't realize what'll happen. Last time she tried it was in mediaeval England. It was fine to go around with your head in the clouds if you were a highborn lady. And for all we know she might have killed the others – if she tried this stunt on anyone before Christabel. Christabel was just the first who escaped."

"So we burn the locket?"

"I guess so. I'll go through the listing of exhibits and see if there's anything else that could be holding –"

The end of Sam's sentence is cut off when a figure appears in the street in front of us. I brake quickly, the car stopping just an inch from –

There's a man, blood pouring from a cut on his forehead. He looks like he just went ten rounds with a wendigo and lost.

I hurry out to see if he needs help. Sam's right behind me. We exchange a glance and act in tandem, Sam going to the trunk to get the first aid kit while I help the guy sit down on the curb.

And it's then, when there's a good twenty feet of space between us for the first time today, that Geraldine appears out of nowhere.

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	5. Madness in the Brain

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta and to criminally charmed, nupinoop296, Lucydolly22, SPN Mum, L.A.H.H., skag trendy, emebalia, Sarah, kellywinchester, BranchSuper, sammynanci, SandyDee84, SayLo, d767468, Jeanny and GreatGreenDragon for the reviews.

**Author's Note: **I don't have enough time for review replies right now, but I'm going away for a few days and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging with just one chapter left. I appreciate all the comments and will respond as soon as I can.

In the meantime, enjoy this!

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**Chapter V: Madness in the Brain**

_Alas! they had been friends in youth;  
But whispering tongues can poison truth;  
And constancy lives in realms above;  
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;  
And to be wroth with one we love  
Doth work like madness in the brain._

Sam's hurt.

Not seriously, but he's hurt.

Turns out the injured dude wasn't so injured after all. Between him and Geraldine's mojo, I was immobilized pretty quickly. Geraldine sat next to me with a knife to my throat, and that was all it took for Sam to give himself up.

Of course the fake-injured-guy couldn't let it go at that, had to get a couple of punches in even after Sam stopped fighting.

I am going to _kill_ him. I'm going to carve his heart out with a rusty spoon and make him _eat _it.

Once I figure out how to end this.

We're in an abandoned warehouse (seriously, what _is _it with ghosts and warehouses?) and they have Sam tied and gagged on the floor at the far end. They haven't actually done anything really horrible to him. They've roughed him up a little. They're not going out of their way to hurt him, but every time he looks like he's regaining enough strength to cause trouble, fake-injured-guy goes and smacks him around till he's slumped back against the cement wall.

I've tried to get to Sam – somehow I know that'll solve it – but Geraldine is always there, always whispering and pulling me away, always messing with my head so that I can't do what every last fibre _aches _to do and help my baby brother.

Those twenty feet of space haven't been allowed to close.

Maybe I should've kept something of Sam's on me. Sam still has my amulet – he kept it once we realized it helped, just in case, and that's probably the reason he's still coherent now (when he's conscious). I should've put myself in one of Sam's hoodies; Geraldine wouldn't have known what it was and it would have let me get a grip.

Let me go to Sam.

Sam's stirring again. Geraldine nods to the hired thug, who isn't even _pretending _to be injured anymore.

"No, please," I say.

"Hush, Dean," she says, finger on my lips. "We're not risking this getting out of hand. You're the only one I've found so far who's been strong enough to take it, and I'm not letting Sam hurt you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't you see?" she asks, blue eyes wide and pleading. "I didn't want anyone to die. Not Anne Lawson. Not Trey Marsh. I certainly don't want you to die. I just… I need someone. It's a simple task. I needed to isolate the ones I chose to be my friends. To help me."

"And you did it by accusing them of… Wow. I'd like to see how you treat an enemy."

"It was so easy with Christabel," Geraldine says with a shrug. "Her father was a fool and all I had to do was persuade him she was being unkind to me. That isn't enough anymore. I do what I have to do, Dean."

"How do you think this is going to make me your friend?"

"You'll turn to me when you have nowhere else to turn."

My blood runs cold. "If you hurt Sam…"

I don't know how I'm summoning up the will to threaten her. I'm about to back down – something in her eyes has panic flitting through me – but then I hear a sickening thud and a gasp of pain from across the warehouse.

"Let him go," I order.

"I'm going to do that, Dean. I'm not a murderer. Anne and Trey were accidents… They weren't strong enough. I just need to keep him quiet. As soon as he's willing to leave peacefully, I'll let him go." She gets to her feet. "Now come. I have work for you."

"Work?"

"The locket – Christabel's locket. I want it. But I can't touch it myself and there's too much security at the museum. We're going to go and retrieve it."

"Why do you need the locket? You need to be able to move more freely?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous, Dean. I can move as I please."

"Then why do you…" I stop short, staring at her as realization strikes me. I feel a pang – it's taken me hours, _hours _of Sam tied up and hurting to figure out what Sam would probably have figured out in about five minutes. "This isn't about anybody in DC, is it? You want to bring Christabel back."

Geraldine's eyes are liquid. "I knew you would understand. I was cruel to Christabel, I admit it, but she was the first person who ever showed me kindness. I lashed out. I was afraid. I struck, as I had struck all the others."

"But the others died, and Christabel survived."

"Her mother helped, but much of the strength came from her. I thought she would be an easy target. I had taken knights and warriors without difficulty. But Christabel…" Geraldine sighs. "She was innocent. Pure. That saved her." Geraldine looks at me. "I need Christabel. Her presence makes me feel pity, love, mercy… All the emotions I had never felt till I met her and never felt after she spurned me. Surely you can understand that? I've seen how you care for your brother."

"Doesn't the fact that she trapped you in the locket tell you something?"

"I was foolish and afraid and I lashed out. Not this time. This time I'll welcome Christabel's company as I ought. In all the centuries of my life and afterlife, Christabel has been my only friend. I won't lose her. And Christabel will be able to free me from the locket."

"But if she's tied to the locket too…"

"She's not. It was hers, though, so I can use it to bring her back. Christabel passed on willingly when her time came. She was never afraid of the darkness."

I shake my head. This bitch is insane. I need to run. I need to get to Sam, get out, get that stupid locket and burn it.

I can't turn away from Geraldine's eyes.

"Come with me," she says, and we leave. I think I hear Sam call for me as the warehouse door shuts.

It's late evening. The museum is closed.

With Geraldine's ability to bend people to her will, it's no trouble to get in and persuade one of the guards to turn off the alarm. I do the lock picking. I don't bother trying to fight her on that; one way or another, we need the locket. We get the locket, and leave.

"You'll see," she says, rubbing my arm.

My skin crawls. I want to grab the locket – she's holding it, right next to me, so close – but I can't. My hands won't listen to me.

I think of Sam, Sam tied up and helpless on the cold cement floor, and the flare of warmth is enough for me to reach out. Geraldine steps back, holding the locket out of reach, and says, "_Now_, Dean. Why would you do that?"

Her hand is on my arm, and although a part of my mind is repeating _Sammy needs you Sammy needs you Sammy needs you_ I can't do anything other than follow her out.

Back at the warehouse, fake-injured-guy is in the process of driving his fist into Sam's jaw.

When he sees us, he drops Sam. Sam falls back, hunching in on himself. He seems to be hurting, but nothing fatal. That's a relief. Non-fatal injuries can be dealt with.

I start to go check on him, but Geraldine holds me back.

"Not now. We have things to do. It's almost finished." She nods at her accomplice. "You too. Come here."

I stand there, struggling with the hold she has on me, struggling to get my body to obey my commands, while fake-injured-guy crosses the warehouse floor. I'm so busy trying to break her grip that I don't see his hands coming up to shove me out of the way. They catch me in the chest. I stumble back, and one beefy hand grips my wrist to keep me from falling into him.

I feel a jolt where fake-injured-guy was holding my wrist.

For a moment I'm as revolted as I am relieved – Geraldine's power is waning, but the thought that _this _guy could do it? The guy who was _hurting Sam_?

Oh.

The guy who was _hurting Sam_.

I look down at my wrist, at fake-injured-guy's fingers marked on it in very real blood.

Sam's blood.

He has Sam's blood on his hands, and now it's on mine.

Sam's blood, and it's enough to break Geraldine's spell.

I don't know how long this'll last, how long it's going to be before Geraldine realizes what's happened. I have to assume that I don't have much time, so I do the only thing my brain will let me do right then.

I run to Sam.

I'm helping him up, untying his wrists, pulling out the gag, pulling him upright in my arms. Sam sags against me, his head dropping to my chest, but it's more exhaustion than anything, and I'm more than happy to let him soak up the comfort while I soak up the restored ability to punch Geraldine right in the face.

I'm so focused on Sam that I've completely forgotten what Geraldine was doing until I hear him say "Oh _crap_" as he looks across the room over my arm.

I follow his gaze.

Apparently Geraldine's ritual didn't need very long. There's another woman there now, young, sweet and innocent, eyes wide and brown.

Christabel.

I need to get the locket and end this _now_.

But I daren't let go of Sam. Who knows how powerful Geraldine and Christabel are together? His blood on my hands – _God_, Sam's blood on my hands, the idea makes me feel sick – might not be enough.

I pull my gun from my waistband, though I don't know what good _that's _going to do. Not like the bitches are corporeal.

"Dean," Sam gasps. The sound is muffled by my shirt and if I weren't really used to it I wouldn't be able to work out what he's saying. "Dean, Christabel. She'll help you."

"What? Sam, how do you –?"

"Trust me," Sam whispers. "Trust me. She will. Just be ready to shoot."

"OK," I say.

Sam nods, like that's all he needs to know, and then he settles himself more comfortably against me. I keep one arm tight around him – I don't dare let go, not until Geraldine's toast – and, with the other, I hold the gun ready to fire.

They seem to be having some kind of argument. I don't know what it's about, but Geraldine's backing away, almost scared. Christabel reminds me a little of Sam, all gentle, innocent eyes and warm smile, and yet somehow as intimidating as an army of zombies.

Christabel walks around Geraldine to the altar set up behind her. As she does, those warm brown eyes flicker towards me, and I realize Sam was right.

Christabel's on our side.

I tighten my fingers around my gun.

Geraldine is saying something – pleading; apparently the thought of Christabel not playing along never crossed her mind.

Idiot.

Christabel turns to me, and I'm struck by how much she looks like Sam. Not in the obvious way, of course, because Sam's a twenty-foot-tall puppy and she's a normal-sized woman. But they have the same look of innocence and gentleness.

And the same look of being able to kick serious ass when you manage to annoy their inner hippie.

_Now_, a woman's voice says in my head. I know it's Christabel's, though her lips haven't moved. _Do it. Now, before the spell can take hold._

Christabel reaches for the altar. Geraldine grabs her.

They struggle. Christabel snatches something off the altar and flings it into the air.

I have a split-second to recognize it as the locket. A split second to react. And thanks to all those summer afternoons spent shooting the tops off bottles outside Pastor Jim's house, I don't even need that long. The gun's up and I've fired and then I'm holding Sam close and curling myself over him to shield him from whatever the fallout is.

Geraldine shrieks as she burns. The sound fills the warehouse.

When it finally stops, nothing left of Geraldine, Christabel looks across the room at us. She smiles, and then she's gone.

There's a moment of total silence. Then fake-injured-guy is running towards us. When I point my gun at him, he stops short.

"No," he gasps. "No, no, I didn't mean to do it. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Dina made me!"

"Dean," Sam says.

I don't lower the gun. "What's your name?"

"Jeff. I promise, I never wanted to hurt your friend. Dina told me to and it was like some sort of spell. I couldn't prevent myself. Please. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Sam says. "You should leave."

"No, let me help. You should go to a hospital. Get yourself checked out."

Sam stiffens. "No hospital," I say. "He's not hurt that bad. I'll take care of him. Thanks for the offer, man. See you around."

"Are you… sure?"

"Yeah, man. Door's behind you."

Sam and I stay on the floor for a few minutes after Jeff's gone. Sam needs to get his breath back and I need to get used to the feeling of being in charge of my own brain again.

* * *

My amulet's back where it should be, around my neck. I can feel its weight like a reassurance as I tear open what I'm hoping is the last alcohol wipe we'll be needing for a while.

"Easy," I say, tilting Sam's head forward to give myself easy access to the cut. Sam hisses when the wipe touches his skin. "Easy, settle down. It's OK. Not even going to need stitches, you big baby." I put the bloodied wipe down. "You know, I don't get you, Sam. Guy beats you up and you don't make a sound, but I'm just _cleaning _the injuries he caused and you're whining like a little girl."

"_Dean._"

"Yeah, OK." I put a couple of butterfly bandages on the cut. "There we go, princess. All done. Don't get it wet." Sam smiles at me, the closest we ever come to _thank you_. I ruffle his hair. "Sleep. I've given you the good stuff."

I help Sam lie flat. He shuts his eyes. I sit at the edge of his bed just in case he needs something.

I'm still sitting there when he falls asleep.

* * *

THE END

* * *

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